


Imagine

by Starkissed1



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Human AU, Loki Does What He Wants, Loki and Thor Are Not Related, M/M, Military Backstory, Pining, Profanity, Shibari, Suicide mention, stream of conciousness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-10-31 04:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17842538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starkissed1/pseuds/Starkissed1
Summary: Loki decides to make a book from his photo manips with the theme of dreams becoming reality. Thor is the hot-as-hell agent willing to put up with him. When Loki discovers what Thor dreams of, he can't wait to get out his camera.The ropes make their appearance in this chapter. :)





	1. Chapter 1

_This felt like a hangover. Things were too bright, too loud, even the coffee smelled burnt. Who thought it was a good idea to be awake this early? He didn’t want to move, let alone give his pitch._

_This. This was the fault of Thor-fucking-Odinson. After meeting with the new agent, he agreed to everything. How could he not? Mr. Hot Pants suggested things, he agreed: signings, public appearances, talk shows for god's sake. Damn it, he hated public appearances. But really, had Mr. Biceps asked him to turn cartwheels in Central Park, he would have. He would not have paused if asked to suck him off under the desk. But did he? No. That perfect, stoic, god of a man, was all fucking business: “Please Mr. Laufeyson, this; Mr. Laufeyson, that; Sign here Mr. Laufeyson.”_

_Even now, at that oaf’s insistence, he sat in the green room of the studio at this god-awful hour. Did anyone even know how old the coffee was? There was a brown ring permanently engraved halfway down the pot. There was probably an actual reason the burning smell overpowered the draw of caffeine. Who knew that morning shows were actually recorded in the morning? Thor-fucking-Odinson, that's who. The asshole knew. But all he had to say was, “Mr. Laufeyson, you hired me as your agent to get your art to a more general public. This is how it's done. We have to meet people where, and when, they are.” No. He wasn't kidding anyone, least of all himself. It wasn't logic that talked him into this insanity. It was when he smiled. He was done in by sunshine walking around on impressive thighs that arrived at an ass he could frame and hang at his next gallery show. He would call it 'Murder of a Thousand Pleasantries'. That ass was killing him. Of course he'd agreed._

_To what? To a book tour for Imagine This. This was not his usual hiding in the gallery with a glass of champagne. This was far from the Laufeyson standard of letting the gallery manager tell people he was a tortured soul who preferred quiet to large gatherings. He was an artist by trade, a storyteller at heart. His work always had been about breathing life into others’ dreams. He held a lengthy interview with each person/model and then he could make their photo shoot a showcase of their heart’s greatest wish. When you’re selling framed art, the work is generally expected to speak for itself. It was his unique signature that he included the subject’s story with the piece. But apparently, if he wanted to share this work in book format, he had to actually talk to people, in groups. Ugh._

_In Imagine This, he put the dreams of humanity on display. He chose his subjects not for their look, but for their hopes and wishes. Each chapter told someone’s dream, complete with photos documenting their day living it. Reviewers called his book 'heartwarming' and 'a renewal of faith in humanity.' People loved the stories: the little girl with cancer who wanted to ride a horse; the immigrant who worked waiting tables who wanted to work in an office instead; the grown man who wanted to be a cyborg to fight off dementia; the couple who wanted to take a group of foster kids to Disney World rather than hold an expensive wedding; the twins just starting kindergarten, a boy and a girl, who wanted to be princesses in outer space. Sometimes, he helped fund these dreams. But mostly he captured them in pixels, filled in effects with a dash of whimsy, and told their story. The media had taken to calling him a modern-day God of Stories after his namesake._

_When he was called to the stage, he painted on a smile. What the hell was the host on? He wanted some of that. It was 6 o'clock in the fucking morning and she was giddy. And she didn’t appear to be faking it like he was. Sure, he was happy to talk about his book, just preferably not before the sun had risen, and risen well-beyond the horizon if he had any say in it. He loved getting into people’s heads and showing them their dreams brought to life. This is why he had gathered the work together in a book and hired that infuriating Odinson to manage its marketing. This was too fucking early, even for his art._

_Not that art was the only reason he had talk show status. He was Loki Laufeyson. And he knew that this was never just about the art, even at the crack of dawn. As expected, the host wanted to talk about his reputation. Not all of his work had been the tame, flowery dreams that he put in this book. People's lives are rife with trauma and regret. His best work was about triumph in despair, healing and growing into a comfortable identity. Many of his gallery shows were explicit. People had so much trauma and so much crisis around sex and sexuality, and the imagery there was striking. It made viewers want to know the story, to hold that level of comfort with sex in the liminal space created by canvas and framing. As can be expected in Western society, there were rumors that he participated in related debauchery._

_Now, granted, those were also wonderful stories, but morning TV was not where they belonged. He avoided details, redirecting the host to the family-friendly book. But he teased--if there was interest, he might gather some of his more adult work into a similar format. He didn’t explain but he’d been thinking that with mainstream recognition, he would like to raise awareness with a set of stories heavily focused on queer identities. Not that he would put the explicit material in there, but certainly more sensual themes. The community would benefit. When one has a platform, it should be used._

_When he left the stage, Ms. Giddy was still bubbly. He had to drop the forced energy level though. He needed sleep, real coffee, and to go harass his thrice-damned agent for this indignity, useful as it might be._

 _Yes, exactly that, in precisely that order._

**********  


_He felt like himself again when he burst into the publishing office after noon, sunglasses on and Americano in hand. The aggravating golden man didn't even look up. He typed a few more words and only then raised his gaze. Those bright blue eyes glittered with mirth as Mr. Sunshine now proceeded to roll out the welcome. Damn him. He was fully aware of how irritating his behavior was._

> “Mr. Laufeyson! Your interview this morning was perfect! We've already seen an increase in sales in the last few hours. And we’re getting email and social media requests for the next book you hinted at. What are you planning?”

_Oh, that fucker, he’s good. He knew exactly how and where to stroke an ego. If he would only consider other options for stroking. Fine. He could have the pitch for Imagine Desire\--sensual images and tales with broad queer representation. Much more on brand for the Laufeyson name, half of the book could be easily pulled from work that was mostly complete. Biceps flexed as the pen slid across paper with notes, fitted broadcloth straining as the pen reached the margin. For all that’s holy, this wet-dream-walking would make a fabulous chapter in such an anthology. Hell, he'd just like to get him on camera._

_What were the chances that Thor Odinson would agree to be a subject?_

> “Pretty good.”

_Those bright blue eyes were staring at him, into him. OhFuckOhfuckOhfuckOhfuck, how much of that had he said out loud?_

_Wait._

_He just agreed._

_To what though? What was Prim and Proper willing to expose? Did it matter? Not really. Whatever came out of this was more than he had been able to get out of Mr. Buttoned Up so far. Pull yourself together Laufeyson, you can do this. Schedule an interview, take a cold shower, whatever the fuck is necessary. Don’t say anything about the pause, shock was a reasonable response, or deep thought. Look him in the eye though._

> “And what desire do you want to live in the open air?” 

_Ok, that was fine. It didn't sound too desperate. It'd been a long time since he had crushed this hard. Why was this so difficult? It must be something about Mr. Untouchable. He always seemed aloof, apart. Even in this conversation, there was no difference in his manner. Usually when people brought him their dreams, they were overcome with emotion. Not Thor. He was contained, calm one might say. He was just leaning back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. Though perhaps that last breath was shallower than normal. Maybe his toes were fidgeting. He was half-hidden by his desk, but wooden drawers provided scant real shelter from hushed conversations on hidden passions._

> “Shibari”

_Oh._

_Oh! That’s a blessed image, and another, and...Holy fuck, he was still talking._

> “...idea from Izzy. Your technique is impeccable.”

_He had done Izzy’s arms. She had left an abusive BDSM relationship, she asked to have her arms tied so she could cut herself out with a knife. The images were strong. They were empowering alongside her story. The photos had been part of an exhibition last year. He suspected that as his agent, Thor had to have an awareness of the previous work, but had no idea that he had reviewed it in this much depth._

> “Why?” 

_Oh, well done. What a beautifully cynical tone! Yes, Thor’s motivation must be clear before he would even consider tying a knot. But damn it all Laufeyson, don’t ruin this. Do better tha..._

> “You."

_Aware he was just staring while Thor sat quietly, he didn't know what to say. Thor had given him no indication that anything was getting through that impervious exterior._

> “Mr. Laufeyson, I support what you want to do for representation and awareness. More than that, I’ve watched you work. I’ve seen the care you take to represent people as they wish to be. This is my wish, if you’re amenable.”

_If he’s amenable. If he’s amenable? For fuck’s sake, he’d been flirting with him since before signing their contract two months ago. And now that Thor had given direction to this imagining, of course he's fucking amenable!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, ok, Thor seems very ooc in this, but keep in mind that Loki is the most unreliable narrator I know. The fabulous Mr. Biceps talks more in the next chapter, which paints him more completely.


	2. Chapter 2

_It had taken several showers. Not cold ones, but long, indulgent showers, featuring Thor bound in multiple positions. In all of which, of course, he was complicit. Which positions would he choose? Did he want to be suspended? Red ropes over that white shirt? Or natural jute over bare skin? Where does the dream take them? While he was not the lech that rumors painted him as, he did not turn down interesting opportunities. And Thor-100% business-Odinson was certainly one of those._

_Having finally wrapped his head, and his hand, around the possibility, he could think with something besides his own dick. He could plan, he was ready. The basis of the work had to come from Thor, not from his own selfish want._

_He’d provided options and Thor chose to come to his studio for the interview. The interview space here was carefully designed: a wall of windows that took in the mountain view, a comfortable couch and an oak table with chairs. None of his work hung in this room. Other people’s dreams did not belong here. This was a room for stories yet untold._

_Though it was Saturday, Thor was dressed as he’d always seen him, in suit and tie. The most important part of the interview was that the subject be relaxed. Apparently, the man was born in business attire. Perhaps that’s a riddle that would be solved before they were done._

_He was not surprised that Thor requested a beer when offered a drink. He was surprised when it was set to the side untouched. From the couch, he watched the blonde head nod along when he stated the basic agreements. Thor was distant, staring out the windows. He didn’t even glance at the contract. The document had been provided to him earlier, so Thor would have read it. But this was not his usual hyper focus. As this process required more active consent, he insisted that Thor verbalize his agreement before signing. The golden statue pretending to be human repeated the clauses clearly and concisely._

> First, this is a non-payment arrangement. Neither of us is paying the other, my previous protests insisting I pay for your work have been noted. All costs of development are being assumed by you, the art will be owned by you as subject to these terms.
> 
> Second, this conversation will be recorded and I can request destruction of the recording at any point.
> 
> Third, if you agree to take this on, you will plan the shoot. I can review the storyboard. I can request modifications.
> 
> Fourth, at any point, before or during the shoot, either of us can call an end. Given the nature of my request, during the shoot the standard red, yellow, and green check-ins will be used.
> 
> Finally, no media will be made public unless we both agree in writing to the final version.

_While he spoke, he never once looked at the clipboard in his hands. Something far away remained more important. Somehow, he saw the nod of assent and signed with sure strokes. The T and the O would be identifiable even across a room. He traded the clipboard for the beer and drank it down. Bright blue eyes now turned their piercing gaze on him. Were this any other man, he would have read that pause as cold feet. Thor Odinson, however, was decided. The man probably never vacillates. Perhaps this pause was intended to suggest that Loki should take this final opportunity to go.That wasn’t going to happen. There was no way he was leaving before unraveling this mystery. Whatever Mr. Untouchable brought to this room, it weighed heavily on him. Eventually, that gaze shifted to the recording device and the statue nodded._

_When the light turned red, Thor stood. Silently, he removed his jacket and settled it on the back of a chair at the table. His tie was folded in half and laid over the jacket collar, a stripe of red running down the black twill. Well, this was new. Thor without his suit. But why wear it here just to remove it? What was the point of this mute performance? Now he was starting on the shirt buttons, well...a better person would have interrupted him._

_He was not a better person, however. If Thor wanted to do this interview in the nude, who was he to suggest otherwise? He had been clear that today’s purpose was just for him to understand what images were wanted, there would be no photography today. Oh, he might regret that, but if this goes well--and, fuck, naked Thor was a damned good start--Thor would disrobe for his camera soon. As the cloth parted, he was faced with the expected expanse of muscle, but the perfection was littered with scars. Thor said nothing while the white shirt was folded into long quarters and set carefully over his tie._

> “I used to be someone else.”

_Well, fucking hell, that was a loaded line. Thor resumed his silence, standing in front of the windows, looking out at the mountains. Jagged lines where he had been torn apart and knit back together echoed the horizon. Trails marked his back, neck and arms, eventually disappearing under the clean edge of belted slacks. The scars gave credence to his claim. There were small, thin lines and thicker, messier reminders of the violence that must have caused them. There were ovals of darker tissue creating small divots that had to be bullet wounds. He must be a very dangerous man to have survived these trials. Surely the name Thor Odinson had been cursed for offenses worse than morning television. If that was even his real name._

> “I come from a military family and blindly adopted that path. I was a good soldier and a better commander, too good. I was a brilliant weapon. There are few public records of the things I did and for that I am simultaneously relieved and ashamed.
> 
> “Pride is what did me in. If I thought a fight was inevitable, I would start it. Hell, if I thought it was possible, I started it. How dare they issue challenge by thinking they could best me? Ultimately, I went too far. In my arrogance, I stepped outside of my directive.”

_There was no emotion in his tone. His words were even and clear. This was the short version. The version that had been prepared and practiced. The longer version probably never saw the light of day. In fact, he’d be willing to bet it was buried as deeply as possible. A broad hand gestured at a thick knot of scars on his abdomen._

> “I was left with this. Others weren't so lucky. I was hospitalized for months and almost didn’t make it. At the time, I wished I hadn’t.”

_Oh. That ache came through. It wasn't stopped by the carefully built wall around this tale. Whether this paragon of military might actually made the suicide attempt or not, it was a turning point. That ache breathed life into things left unsaid. Sometimes, that wish returned._

> “During physical rehabilitation, I got therapy. I cut ties and walked away from my puppeteers. They had no need for me anyway, I was broken. Officially, I retired. Unofficially, I was told to never return. I haven't been home in years.
> 
> “I met some people, good people. I got more therapy. In between coffee, pancakes and late night beers, I learned how to be a person again. I built a new life where I am no longer just a weapon. I’m happy with my current choices.”

_Happy was relative, he knew that one personally. Thor took a moment before continuing. On a deep breath the shoulders rolled back, white marks shifting. The scars moved more than he would expect. There was a little voice that drew attention to bare skin. A little voice that knew while he was tying knots, his fingertips would be able to trace the paths of trauma and healing. Even with the danger underlined, desire would not be dissuaded. Perhaps with that history shared, we now get to why that telling was deemed necessary. Why did Commander Odinson want his binding, his submission, on display?_

> “What is in my head though, doesn’t go away. It can’t be redacted. Part of what has allowed me to survive was learning how to actually be in control, that it is more than just giving orders. Of course, the opposite has been just as helpful. I learned how and when to give control away, not just blindly follow orders. Some good people introduced me to shibari. There is a quiet in ropework where my thoughts are silent.”

_He was still confused. He wasn’t owed this. Thor didn’t need to atone with him. There was not a 12 step program for PTSD where you have to spell out your history to an artist. Though his guilt weighed heavy, he hadn’t asked for punishment; the imagining of retribution; payment of pain owed. He’d asked for binding. To Thor, binding was familiar--the known balm in this tale. If it was redemption the man was looking for, he wasn’t quite sure how to give it._

> “Thor, if you have systems that work, you don't need me.”

_At that, he turned around. This villain. This victim. Some of the scars on his torso aligned with those on his back, some were solitary marks that did not go straight through.Though, he supposed, that even with the cleanest wounds, much was left behind._  

> “That's where you're wrong. In the right headspace, my thoughts go silent, but these scars don't go away. They announce my past, proclaim my arrogance. They belong to a monster. These no longer tell my story, at least, not all of it. The rope keeps me together. Yet, I can’t bear to look at it. I need your magic touch on this image, you can banish that which no longer serves.”

_There. There’s the dream: a clean slate; a second chance; an erasure of the pain and violence; removal of the evidence. This dream was the hardest on which to deliver. Often he wished for a spell to turn back time, to allow the tales he heard to have a different end. Yet, history never changes. Sometimes dressing events differently and writing the narrative from a modified perspective helped people see a changed future. That was the limited power he had._

> “It’s not magic. It’s smoke and mirrors and pixels. It's just words on a page. That moment of peace you seek, that might be found. Though, be aware, it is but fleeting. There is no salvation here.”

_His own voice was quiet, reserved. Thor nodded at him and began to replace his clothes. It was clear that the suit was carefully chosen concealment, even an armor of sorts. Now that he knew what he was looking at, he could see the routines, the chosen paths of control. The red knot cinched under the points of the white collar._

> “Salvation is not due men like me. Yet, perhaps I’m asking for magic anyways. Perhaps I’m asking to peek at the wizard behind the curtain. Perhaps the man you show in public is as much a facade as my suit and tie. There is more to Loki Laufeyson than your selfish and perverse reputation allows. Your work puts the lie to that tale. Perhaps I can take you up on that date you're always offering.”

_Well-played, Sir. We award points to the devious Mr. Odinson. This process was not just for dreams of history changed nor artistic merit, this was an audition. He had to work for dates before, but ‘tie me up before we go to dinner’ was a unique proposition._

> “First, I want you to see the man I am now. I am no longer the ruthless commander I was. By the same token, I'm not quite the chastened exile. I am not just this suit. Yes, I am those things, but I want to be more.
> 
> “Will you do it?”


	3. Chapter 3

_Even though Thor had named them both false, called them actors on a public stage, they returned to comfortable pleasantries with their costumes solidly in place. The rest of the interview proceeded without awkward pauses or naked confessions. That second was truly a shame, but it allowed him to work._

_Was it strange that they were able to have an explicit conversation so lightly? To discuss bondage and angles, and nudity, and limits as if they were old men sharing recipes? Others might call it so. Others might claim disassociation or another form of distancing. Perhaps it was._

_They each had a unique relationship with control. Control was a tool, a focus, a measure. Thor used control and submission as outlets - a way to impose order on the chaotic world and a way to let the chaos exist outside of his imposed order._

_His own control ran to shutter stops, lighting angles, image manipulation--smoke and mirrors, he’d called it. Even among people, control was contracts: explicit agreements of what and where, signed, sealed, delivered. Was that really more than a magician’s trappings? This farce of control was his armor, his suit and tie as it were. Who was the arrogant one here? Who claimed they could improve reality?_

_Pride was absolutely one of the sins he enjoyed._

_And he looked out for others, used his power and influence for good, most of the time. He knew why he created these structures; why he worked in imagination. Dreams were worth recognizing, even if it took a liar’s promise and the illusion of mastery over physics. The reality was that it required distance to maintain that level of illusion. And distance was comfortable._

_The interview continued. Another drink was poured and two glasses sat in the distance between two men. On the outside, they were consummate professionals meeting. The desire they both admitted to was not discussed. They talked about physical reactions; emotions and aftercare; limits, both hard and soft; and all without a hint of passion. This was the work. This detachment was a false veil. It obscured intimacy with functional language._

_He rebelled. From within his self-imposed containment, the arguments arose. How could this beautiful man want to be covered, hidden? The danger of the man’s power should not be taken away, history covered with a candy coating. He discussed the tooth-rotting fluff of the requested dream, he god-damn-planned it. He didn’t want to._

_How much more powerful would it be to have the fullness of the former weapon’s submission on display? To have such potential wrapped and contained? That’s the story he wants to tell, the imperfect one, the human one. Not just the sunny day, rather the brightness of sunshine on the beach washed clear with the hurricane’s detritus at the tree line. Not the caged lion, rather the maned king treating with the humans that share its territory._

_‘The rope keeps me together,’ he’d said. And then, as if he were actually falling apart, he added, ‘don’t let anyone see the pieces.’ No, that wasn't quite right, ‘don’t let ME see the pieces.’ Thor’s scars were the explanation of why he needed the binding, they highlighted where he had been broken. But ‘bury them’ was the directive._

_Fuck._

_Would he do it?_

_He didn't want to._

_But of course he would agree. He always said yes to this exasperating man._

_When Thor left, both projects began to take shape._

_**********_

_Everything was ready. Thor had approved the plans last week, those that he knew of. There were no changes. So, all moved forward easily._

_He had taken to referring to these projects as Finding Peace when he was with Thor. In his own thoughts, they had become Finding Pieces. At least he found himself funny._

_The warehouse was a site he had used before. The gritty background contrasted well with softer, more human images. Specifically, there was some older wood and steel framing that he was going to use with this shoot. Thor was a large man, the framing would be the right size next to him. The rest of the tools were half of the magic. Apart from his camera, he had lights, diffusers and reflectors, and cushions. An unfortunate side effect of this process was that it took time to arrange and perfect a shot. So if he could make Thor a little more comfortable, he would._

_They started in the suit. He’d wanted some images of Mr. Untouchable to set the stage for the story. Thor in his daily armor: darting and starch and layers. Thor leaning on the wooden beams. Thor’s tailored bulk blotting out the space. Seen as the paragon of control before handing it over. And yes, he was a selfish enough bastard that he wanted some shots of that fine backside. He was done in by the way curves disrupted the line of the trousers._

_Of all things, they were discussing where they first learned knots. OK, this was probably not that odd. They moved some lights and stands. Thor posed as directed. He told stories of camping and scouting, of learning to tie a snare. He disrobed while laughing about a friend catching their foot in a rabbit snare and the kid pouting about not being upended. Thor, the helpful boy that he was, then attempted to build a trap that would snag an 8-year-old child._

_He was snapping candid pictures and gladly. Thor was glorious. He moved with the same intention as before, carefully setting aside his suit. Yet this laughter was so different from the somber mood of several weeks ago. This was the playful man he’d caught glimpses of in previous interactions. In spite of being surrounded by the trappings of his profession, he did not want to work. Here, with glittering dust motes swirling around steel beams and Thor in just a small pair of skintight shorts, the feel of dreaming was overwhelming. He wanted to forget his plans. He wanted to be part of this imaginary world. He wanted to see that joy writ upon the man’s face, but with Loki’s name upon his lips. He swallowed hard to push away the immediacy of need._

_He could wait. The plans were good, the work would be worth it...as art, yes, and perhaps as more._

_Thor took a seat upon the stool while he exchanged camera for rope. He felt his lips upturn and sent a silent thank you to the day’s wind. Though it was barely audible inside the building, it had been strong enough that Thor’s hair was slightly disheveled. Most of it was gathered and tied at the base of his neck, but a few wisps had come loose and now framed his face. The slight imperfections that the camera would capture were exactly the details he would focus on: pieces that make the whole more real, more human._

_The soft fibers slid through his fingers and he recalled his touch would be sliding over flesh in just moments. Distraction was necessary as he approached the seated statue. He started the tale of his first yachting trip with his brothers. He knotted the center of two lengths as he neared. He held the rope and stilled his tongue, standing in front of the former commander, the former Mr. Prim and Proper. He asked permission again. Blonde strands floated in emphasis of the slight nod._

_Skin was warm beneath his fingers as he settled the knot behind Thor’s neck. He restarted the tale of how his brothers had him tie and retie knots until he perfected each style. Salt air always made him think of ropes and knots. Thor did not smell like ocean, though.  He smelled of forest rain, of wood and moss. Would Thor like to go sailing? He drew rope front and back, the basic harness serving as a frame for the more decorative weave. He smoothed the twist in rope over skin, watching the way fibers flexed and where flesh curved into the wrap. Rope acted differently on skin than on the wood or metal of the boat. Back and forth, he twisted rope through the harness guides and over Thor’s shoulder. They had planned to use sections of weaving to do some of the obscuring. His fingers crossed the raised scar on Thor’s collarbone until only lines of rope remained._

_He talked about sea life and sailing. When he finished the section of weaving that covered part of the left pectoral, he looked up to intense blue eyes watching him work. He felt a slight heat come to his cheeks under this careful appraisal. He was glad for the need to gather the next set of ropes. The work continued now in silence as simple wraps covered the mess of abdominal scars. This wrap was for show only. Deeply he protested the lie, he begged for reality in this dream. Again, he saw both stories in his mind. With the ends tucked in, he noticed that while he argued with himself, Thor had closed his eyes and his breathing had deepened._

> "Color?"

_The vivid blue of Thor’s eyes answered his question, he had relaxed into the binding and was not falling. The expected verbal response confirmed the observation. Emboldened, he stepped behind the stool and ran fingertips up uncovered portions of spine. Thumbs on either side of his neck dug into the muscle there, pushing up, pulling down. There seemed to be no tension left._

_A loop around each bicep, knots and twists running down the middle. More loops were added until the dragonfly sleeve ended in knotted wrists. His own breath was coming shallow, he ran palms up bound arms, fingertips dancing over shoulders._

> "Green."

_The unrequested check in came as he lifted his hands from warm flesh. He read the same truth in each curve of muscle, in the steady rise and fall of breath, and in each measured pulse that pushed skin against the clear lines of rope. He ran his palms down his own sides, seeking a grounding moment. This was work. He was a professional, damn it._

_But really? How much of this was professional? He knew he was a selfish hedonist. He knew about the second project. He knew what he really wanted._

_He wanted his cake and to eat it, too. To give Thor what he asked for, and perhaps, possibly, also what he needed._

_For now, that meant Thor should be kneeling. After the request to move, he did so with careful, sure steps. At the predetermined spot, he went to help him balance. Not that this walking piece of art needed the support. Fuck, he barely wavered as he went down. This man was born to kneel._

_That, that he craved. There was so much possibility there. He just stepped back and watched the big man settle: a minor shift to center himself and a flex of shoulders. The ropes on his upper arms moved, they could have been tighter after all. He'd have to slide some back for the right coverage, but if he worked fast the rope marks would be clear on his skin for the picture._

_He moved and adjusted the slipped ropes. With a nudge from the toe of his boot, Thor's knees opened wider. He had to swallow the praise. Dear god, this was killing him._

_The next shots were just this, Thor's quiet submission on the concrete floor, wood and steel framing him. With angles, some light variations, shutter flashes and some longer exposures, he worked quickly to finish the series._

_He took the previous supportive stance and offered the chance to stand before the next round. The blonde head shook and asked that he continue._

_They backed up to the cross beam, its edges worn round. This made it a perfect support for the next tie. He looped a new rope over ankles creating cuffs. Another rope slid easily through the back of the chest harness, was tied over the ponytail, and thrown over the wood. Thor raised up on his knees, settled the back of his neck on the beam, and reached for his heels with his fingers._

_Though most of these ties had been looser than he (and probably Thor) would have liked, here he pushed close to the limits of Thor’s flexibility. Swiftly, the knots were connected: hair to wrists to ankles. Thor's arch connected to the beam, leaving him little opportunity to move. His eyes were closed, his breathing slowed._

> "Color?"

_One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. He's still breathing. Three, one thousand._

_He brushes his fingers on a golden cheek._

> "Thor? Check in with me. What's your color?"
> 
> "Good...reen"

_His eyes fluttered but did not fully open. His mixed words were barely audible. Thor had his moment of peace, he was not going to waste it. The camera got all the pieces: Thor's body arched upwards, knots dotting flesh, muscles frozen in this moment, bound together._

_‘The rope keeps me together,’ he’d said. And fuck, it was an elegant unification of submission and control.  Here is where the two projects meet._

_Later. Later, he could dive into this image, these images. Now he hurried, the assembled cushions to the side, shears in his back pocket.  That final rope that pulled Thor back over the beam was released first. Thor’s head lolled forward, his breathing remained smooth while he worked on separating wrists and arms. He helped Thor shift to the side when his hands were finally free. This time the assistance was used as Thor attempted to sit._

_The intense blue of Thor’s gaze was absent and the softer shades put him in mind again of the ocean. He went to undo the bindings on the ankles in front of him, but he was interrupted._

> "No. Please."

_Thor looked smaller somehow when he glanced away, his right hand slowly caressing over indentations on his left arm._

> "Shall I sit?"

_Again, the loose blonde locks transmitted the nod with more clarity than the slight bob of his chin. The hand rose up his arm, palm pressing into the rope on his chest. He had said he didn’t always want to be held afterwards. Not always, meant sometimes. He settled behind him, bracketing him with his legs, laying his chest on his back, wrapping him in his arms. When Thor’s hand encountered his arm on its journey back down, he stopped moving. Shoulders rolled back and pressed into him. He matched his own breaths to the rise and fall of the bound chest he was holding._

_Thor-fucking-Odinson._

_God-damned-perfect-fucking-Odinson._

_He had plans._

**Author's Note:**

> For a one-shot that was Loki's profanity-laced thoughts about his new agent, this has now developed a plot and a [mood board](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/538791).
> 
> Said plot is growing slowly. So if you have ideas, I'd be happy to hear them.


End file.
